


Castles in the Sand

by BetweenScenes



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Prequel to S1, Suggested reading before S2:E8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenScenes/pseuds/BetweenScenes
Summary: In Virginia during the Revolutionary War, Ross dreams of Elizabeth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant as a prequel/companion piece to Ride to Trenwith/Ride to Nampara.

     Ross shifted uncomfortably on his makeshift bed in the chilly Virginia air, adjusting his haversack under his head. The lumps of clothing, his gunpowder horn, and dry biscuit and jerky did not provide much cushioning, nor did his jacket and breeches provide much insulation from the night wind.

     The chorus of snores surrounding him crashed like waves on the rocky shores of Hendrawna Beach. As he closed his eyes, she appeared before him. Down her back cascaded her brown curls, flying free in the breeze which glided over the cliffs overlooking the ocean. He could see her sparkling eyes as she smiled at him over her shoulder, teasingly. She danced away from him, her skirts twisting and whipping in the wind, clinging to her slender form.

     Just the thought of her nearly made him groan with longing. Had it really been almost three years ago that he and Elizabeth had escaped from the staid and somber farewell gathering at Trenwith before he headed off to war, sneaking out through those hidden corridors to the back entrance? They had been flushed with excitement at their narrow escape. Verity and Francis had come down the hall after them and Ross had covered Elizabeth's mouth with his hand to keep her from giggling and betraying their location in the alcove behind the curtains. He could still feel her lips on his palm, her curves pressed against him as they waited for his cousins to pass. . . He could feel the same heat now, rising up from his loins.

     Memory, what an odd thing. She was thousands of miles away, but here his body was responding as if she stood right in front of him, as if this aching longing could be satiated, as if. . .

     His mind flew forward to his return home. A wedding--surely they wouldn't need to wait long to read the banns. Joshua would have few qualms about the Chenowyths being joined to their family. And surely Francis would stand up with him, and Verity with Elizabeth. Ross could imagine them before the parson in Sawle church.

     But the wedding itself did not occupy his thoughts long. Yes, there would be the ceremony, then dancing and merriment, dinner and many guests to congratulate them. He imagined meandering between the well-wishers at Trenwith (for surely they would have the wedding ball at the family estate) having eyes only for Elizabeth, as ancient crones cackled over her wedding finery and the men of the village pounded him on the back in congratulations.

     The wedding ball did not occupy his thoughts long. Instead he found himself picturing her and only her, imagining leading her by the hand to one of the best rooms of the house. Then with the door bolted behind them, wrapping her in his arms, pressing his lips desperately against hers, a drowning man coming up for air, a starving man finally satiated.

     She would step away from him. And eyes locked on him, the red velvet curtains of the four-poster bed behind her, she would work at the buttons on her wide-lapelled wedding redingote. With that set aside, perhaps she would need his help to unfasten the ties on her corset. He could almost picture her there in front of him, could imagine stepping close to her, looking down at the pale, smooth neck as he worked his hands through the laces, releasing her from the stiff prison of her stays, pausing to brush back her hair and kiss her neck. And he would make quick work of his jacket, waistcoat and cravat. Remove his boots, peel off his stockings. He imagined looking up from the task to see her in just her chemise, the hem skimming her thighs, the drawstring around the neckline loose, one shoulder exposed. Her eyes looking at him with trepidation, but her lips smiling with shy welcome.

     This time Ross groaned audibly, adjusting his position on the ground to allow room in his breeches for his response to these thoughts of Elizabeth. The movement allowed the chilly air to seep in again. He was grateful for his heavy cloak, which he pulled over his shoulders and gripped at his neck. Rolling over had tightened his cravat to a near strangle-hold. He slipped a finger underneath the tight fabric to loosen it. That touch at his throat brought his thoughts rushing back to the hillside above Hendrawna again.

     When Ross had caught up to Elizabeth, he had swept her into his arms and whirled her around. When he let her down, he did not release his hold. She had leaned her cheek against his heart, and with her index finger reached up, stroking the stubble on his cheek, running her finger over his lips, down his chin, over the jut of his Adam’s apple, and slipping her finger behind the knot of his cravat to the hollow at the base of his neck.

     He knew she was an innocent. She had been but sixteen then. But in that motion, her touch hinted at her desire. To touch and be touched. Of the future pleasures that awaited when nothing was between them—not even clothing.

     He remembered her words, serious, though said half in jest: “Pray do not be reckless, I wish you to return." He had released his grasp to gaze into her perfect face.

     “It won’t be for long.” he had assured her.

     She turned as if to run away, teasing, “You’ll forget me!”

     “Never!” Subconsciously he reached his left hand over to his right, gripping the small silver circlet on his right pinky. In the rosy light of sunset he had grabbed her hand, slipped off the ring from her finger, and placed it on his.

     Again his mind slipped back to the room in Trenwith, to her form and her beautiful face, backed by the red velvet curtains, the solid four poster bed. He imagined her body, thought of her reaching up to the neckline of her chemise and guiding the fabric over her shoulders, letting the light muslin of her shift drop to the floor.

     “This won’t do,” Ross groaned, half out loud. He was making himself mad with desire and longing. This war could not end soon enough. But Elizabeth, Elizabeth had been his respite these three years. How many times had he revisited that evening? How many times had he thought through the events of their wedding day? Of their wedding night? Surely there were many nights where the imaginings had continued past the dropped shift on the floor of the room in Trenwith. Many a night his mind had spent itself on that four-poster bed with red velvet curtains. And even when he had succumbed to the teasing of his fellow officers and the temptations of a blue-eyed loyalist beauty here in the Colonies, he never thought of another but her.

     Each night, it seemed, he would build up these comforting fantasies, these castles in the sand. In the morning the tides of fear and violence, the waves of smoke and noise, the surge of death and carnage, would wash away those castles with their relentless battering. But was he such a fool to cling to what little beauty remained in his mind? Innocence, forgiveness, beauty. Everything that was good and worthy; all that he hoped for; all that he dreamed of, was bound up in that girl-turning-woman on the slopes above Hendrawna.

     Ross rolled over, and surrounded by the waves of snores of his fellow soldiers, he fell into a fitful sleep.


End file.
